


Hedera Helix

by crystalsexarch



Series: Unlimited Astral Works [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trraaaaannnssss angst, projecting my problems onto a catboy, rating will shoot up one of these days but not now, who is trans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-01-13 09:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsexarch/pseuds/crystalsexarch
Summary: A deeply troubled, eccentric, and indecisive Exarch. A wholesome, radiant Warrior of Light and Darkness. A few little lies, some good intentions, and a veritable flood of bad timing.Short pieces that get increasingly long as we go along.In this canon - G'raha Tia is trans and experiences trans problems, so if you would not like to read about that I urge you to find another romance fiction.





	1. Table of Contents

01\. Table of Contents

02\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Admires a Bittersweet View

03\. In Which G’raha Tia Sleeps Alone

04\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Craves Crowned Pie

05\. In Which G’raha Tia Appreciates Food for Its Taste

06\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Lies Poorly

07\. In Which G’raha Tia Sleeps Alone...Again

08\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Receives a Gift and Accidentally Rejects Another

09\. In Which G’raha Tia Loses His Virginity and Faith

10\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Rejects an Apology and Apologizes

11\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Obediently Eats Breakfast and Makes a Confident Proposal

12\. In Which the Crystal Exarch Overshares

13\. ???


	2. Table of Contents

Great clusters of stars in a true night sky - it meant many things, but one more than others: soon the Warrior of Light and Darkness would leave.

And the Crystal Exarch wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

One thing he _was_ certain of - now that darkness had returned to the world, he missed traveling more than he had in centuries. Grasses, greens, and gardens he had aplenty, but his youth whispered to him in the night. Told him _seek what you’ve been afraid to seek_. Staring at Lakeland from atop Xande’s throne, bare feet wet from having crossed the sea green water, he could almost convince himself the sentiment applied to nature alone.

Yes, Florian would leave. The darkness would stay, along with the boons it brought. The question now was whether the Exarch would remain Exarch or allow G’raha to bleed into the Crystarium.

Sitting on stone not unlike the crystal of his body, G’raha remembered having sat there often before. _Long_ before. As Exarch, he avoided the throne. What use had he to bask in accursed light and remember his failings as a man of flesh and blood? Centuries prior, by the count of his own life, the throne produced opportunities he was perhaps fool not to pursue, but those opportunities could have led him away from the fated path before him. And before the Warrior.

Yet now they both lived.

As though he had wanted to make sure the stars would twinkle as they had for the past moon, once they blanketed the darkness, G’raha eased himself down from the throne, back into the water, lifting the hem of his robes. His sandals waited near the edge of the platform. With one hand, he gripped them by the straps and made his way back to the Tower proper, leaving a trail of wet footprints as he went.

At that hour, he was alone. Common sense and his own connection to the Tower told him so. The people of Norvrandt, as much as they celebrated night’s return, appreciated the calming effect of un-light even more, now that they’d had some time to adjust. The only kind of rejoining the First had experienced was a sort of _coming together_ as units once more. A certain intimacy, a certain fondness for wake, work, wander, wait for that beautiful black to return again - it all drained the Crystarium’s cycle of bustle to a lull each evening. People spent time with the ones they loved, as indeed they always had, but now they did it in shadow, knowing they’d been delivered time worth spending gently.

The Exarch, for all Norvrandt’s victories, slept less than he had in ages, though he went to bed more often. Now that he had time to rest, his insomnia rang louder than it had before. For bells, he lay in comfortable covers with his eyes wide open. Perhaps it was temporary. Or perhaps _the thought_ would remain with him for the rest of his borrowed life.

_The thought_ made him bite his lip as he tread down the stairs to the Ocular. The thought that he should play another role. Fight another fight, one more dreadful and personal than any he’d tasted in ages. One which smelled like greenery and baking clay and daisy-kissed water left in the sun.

He dropped his sandals outside the Umbilicus and stood before the Portal. With tired eyes, he thought to check on the man just once before heading off to bed himself. This habit he retained from the days wherein Florian could call him only “Exarch” and not _Raha_...

...a sound he would certainly forbid, should he hear it any time soon…

“That’s it, then, isn’t it?”

The Portal blinked to life, and G’raha’s ears flicked at the sound of the Warrior’s warm voice. The Elezen stood, hand on his hip, sweat at his brow, atop a moonlit roof - in the Rak’tika Greatwood, G’raha guessed, by the leafy shadows dancing at his feet. G’raha found himself mimicking the man’s bright smile, the kind that made his eyes shut. Feathery flaxen bangs framed Florian’s face, sticking to his heat-kissed cheeks.

“That’s the last of them,” a voice called from below.

The news pulled his beaming face skyward. “Excellent.”

“If you like, Warrior, dinner ought be ready by now. To have you sup among us would be...more than an honor.”

“I should be down quite soon, my friend.” He shifted his weight and inhaled like he could smell all the way to autumn. “Pray, let there be no delay for my sake. I’m simply enjoying the view.”

A low chuckle from the ground. “I’ll say you’ve said as much, but I’m afraid nary a soul would dare so much as sip before your arrival, should they know you’re coming.”

“Then don’t tell them I’m coming.”

Another laugh, and the figure had left Florian alone...or alone, physically. The Exarch yet observed him.

Whatever Florian thought of the Exarch now, despite what he’d known and experienced...he seemed happy. The deceit had not tempered him from at least the most basic form of contentment. He stood on that rooftop like a beacon until the very moment G’raha had thought to cease scrying.

Knowing he was happy out there - it made his head feel better and his heart feel worse. Things had not been the same since the hood came off, or since G’raha locked himself in the Tower, or since their lips first touched several centuries ago.

_Long_ centuries.

The Exarch worked in the Umbilicus for bells, convincing himself sleep would come if he needed it. It never came.


	3. In Which G’raha Tia Sleeps Alone

There was the time he fell in love with the idea of a woman. Pale skin, glistening fangs, tricky long-lashed eyes of purple. A Keeper of the Moon with silver hair and bow-worn arms. She called his mismatched eyes beautiful and his face _handsome_. She was perhaps the first person to ever choose that word in lieu of _pretty_, though he’d been edging his body towards manhood with bitter tinctures and poultices for moons.

There was the time she spotted the thick binding beneath his vest, the wrapped pieces cutting his figure how he liked it, how it needed to be. If she cared, she never said so. If she had thoughts about why the markings on either side of his nose looked nary darker than a fresh freckle, she kept them to herself.

Then there was the time he joined her in her quarters, red-faced and weak. The night went well. They dined, they drank, they wound up in one another’s arms.

“Stay with me, G’raha,” she said, tugging at his neck. “Won’t you?”

He looked down, smiling, and asked himself if he knew what love was before speaking. “I ought not…”

“You have no designs for me then?”

His ears flared back and then down. The words came out like the prelude of a song, like he was talking to a kit. “You know I have feelings for you.”

“Then why not stay?” Tail curled around tail, softer even than the skin of her arms.

G’raha straightened his back. “I - “

“There’s no need for you to explain yourself,” she had said, tapping her fingertips on his thighs. “I know what you are.”

A cold hit to his sternum, one that took too long to register. He pretended he hadn’t caught her meaning, if only to preserve his pride. “What I am?”

She smiled like she didn’t know she held a carving knife at his collarbone. “Man or woman - it makes no difference to me.”

Losing constitution fast, his face darkened. “W-well..oughtn’t my own preferences matter?”

She touched his arm, but he pulled away. “Of course they do. My meaning is simply that - “

He stood and tried to shake himself from a bad dream. “I...I really ought not stay. Pray forgive me.”

“Raha, I mean only that - “

“I shall see you...on the morrow, then.”

There was the time silence accelerated him through the door and to his own quarters. He did not see her on the morrow, nor the day following, nor the day after that. Studies occupied him for days - or at least that was his excuse. Something far deeper had worked a piece out and away from him.


	4. In Which the Crystal Exarch Craves Crowned Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warm gathering momentarily interrupted by old, cold feelings that once burned hot.

The Exarch tiptoed through his own Tower like he had no right to be there. He followed the sound of voices, and one voice in particular, that echoed throughout the blue despite the time of night. Staff in hand, he plodded ever closer, though he knew exactly what he’d find: merry, mirth, memories in the making.

Just a bit farther down the corridor, a great door stood cracked. A burst of laughter filtered as G’raha approached, and when he reached out with his hand of flesh, he closed around another set of fingers.

“Oh!”

“Sorry!”

“My apologies.”

A bumble of unconfident utterances. Each party stepped back from the door and peered through the crack. There, G’raha saw Florian, heads taller than he, with his lips twisted. The Exarch gave him enough room to open the door properly, revealing a host of smiling faces gathered around one of the Tower’s dining tables. Crumb-covered plates, crumpled hand towels, and empty glasses littered the surface. Crystarium residents filled the seats, and Thancred the Scion mingled near the back of the room with watchful eyes.

“Exarch,” Florian said. “I apologize it’s grown so late. We were wrapping up this moment, only I...meant to ask you whether you’d like any of these leftovers for yourself.”

“There’s no need for apology,” G’raha said. Neither name felt right to him, nor did the eyes upon his unmasked face. “Lest you forget - I was the one who suggested you utilize the Tower for your celebration in the first place.”

“Of course.” Florian’s eyes didn’t smile. He turned to those gathered - the crafters and artisans, blacksmiths and armorers who had assisted in his fight against the Lightwardens and the Ascian Emet-Selch - and gestured back at G’raha. “As you know, the Crystal Exarch played no small role, much like yourselves, in bringing night to Norvrandt. And what’s more, without his hospitality we’d never have gathered here to celebrate at all.”

“Here, here! A toast!”

“Tis too late for toasts, you old fool.”

The crowd laughed, shuffled, went back to what they were doing. Thancred kept his eyes on G’raha, who clasped both hands around his staff and fiddled.

“In any case,” Florian said, “we will have the place looking right as rain before a matter of time. A great many culinarians helped prepare what we’ve got here tonight, and ‘twas agreed upon that _you_ have your pick of it all before it’s gone away.”

“Ah,” G’raha said. On the table, between personal plates were platters that once held more. A few fruits, rich ladles of cream and sauce, fragrant trays of bread, miscellaneous meats. And then in a forgotten corner of the table - a pile of tiny crowns. He squinted and tilted his head to the side, knowing they once adorned a particular Ishgardian delight, and seeing as only one Ishgardian was in attendance...

“Ah,” Florian said. “The crowned pies. I should’ve...forgive me. I know how fond you were of them. Should have left one for…” A stunted laugh choked his sentence, and he shook his head. “Do you remember when…?”

He looked into the Elezen’s light eyes. “Remember what?”

“Ah. Well. I’m hardly certain I remember it myself, and it’s been only a few moons for me.” Florian waved off the thought. “Certainly nothing to dredge my soul over, I suppose. Not at this hour.”

“I see.”

They stood silent while most of the room ignored the bitter moment. As long as he’d lived in and indeed _as_ the Tower, G'raha sure spent a lot of time admiring the floor those days.

“Well then,” Florian said, raising his hands. “If there’s nothing in particular, I suppose we’ll set about tidying the place. You hear that, my friends?”

“Aye, aye. We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

A few guests stood and began their work. G’raha was quick to hold out a warning palm. “Please,” he said. “Do not rush on my behalf. You may have as much time as you need and more.” He turned to the Elezen. “This is least I can do, Warrior.” Then quieter. “Florian.”

“Thank you, Exarch,” he said with half-shut eyes. “G’raha.”

He flicked his tail in his robes and started for the door.


	5. In Which G’raha Tia Appreciates Food for Its Taste

The day Unei and Doga disappeared into the World of Darkness, along with the Garlean Nero, G’raha Tia watched Florian limp to the edge of Xande’s mighty platform and hunch over, fingers tipped into the teal water. While Cid shuffled his way around the Allagan clones that littered the area, G’raha stepped towards the one they called the Hero of Eorzea.

From a few fulms away, G’raha heard Florian’s breathing. Nonetheless, the Warrior spoke first, tilting his head over his shoulder. “Are you well, my friend?”

G’raha straightened his ears. “Me? I’d ask the same of you. The part I played today was far lesser.”

“I saw you,” he said, turning to the waters. “Your eye, troubling you. Much as my own ability troubles _me_, I’d wager.”

G’raha pursed his lips and let his tail relax, remembering the pulsing pain that so recently edged through his core. “I’d not presume…”

"Noted also is your excellent marksmanship. It's been a long day, hasn't it? The things we've seen." Without turning his head, he palmed at a pouch on his waist, missing the flap a few times. Were his fingers shaking? “Join me, won’t you? I’ve brought something…oh...”

G’raha stepped forward. “What is it?”

Florian’s eyes closed with a smile, then a laugh after he peered into his bag. He ran his free hand down his face in shame. “Well, I was going to say I’d brought along a snack, but...I’m afraid I should’ve thought harder about taking crowned pie into battle.”

“You brought...a snack?”

“Crowned pie. Common at Ishgardian festivals. If I’m honest, I thought we’d have more reason to celebrate.”

“Crowned pie?” G’raha tilted his head. Suppose the expedition hadn’t ended with their fellows pulled into the World of Darkness. Had Florian meant to share it with him in the first place? The idea, regardless of its validity, made him blush. “Well, perhaps given the circumstances...a crushed pie is more fitting than one in peak condition.”

Florian smiled and pulled the poor wrapped pastry from his pouch and set it on his thigh. G’raha sat next to him with his legs crossed and watched him unwrap it with long fingers. Water from the Allagan pool spritzed G’raha’s arms, but after the journey through the Tower he welcomed the cool sensation.

Florian chuckled and picked a tiny gold crown from the flattened, bready mess he had revealed. “Normally,” he said, “this would adorn something worth adorning.”

“You can’t eat that bit, can you?”

“No, no. It’s just for looks. Here.” He held it in his palm and gestured toward G’raha. “It’s about the only thing here worth salvaging. Care to be crowned?”

Ears back again, he held his hands up. “N-no! You can keep it and put it on another, no?”

Florian narrowed his eyes and smirked, regarding the crown a bit longer before putting it back in his bag and latching it once more. “I suppose.”

They sat for a moment. Cid had called for neither, so G’raha assumed the master was gleaning what he could from the clones, or the technology, or some other aspect of the Tower. Normally, G’raha would have been doing the same - flitting about with wide eyes and an open mind - but a combination of his pain, their loss, and Florian’s apparent exhaustion had pulled him to that corner of the room and would not let him go just yet.

“Well, there’s no harm in trying what survived,” Florian said. He held a formidable crumb of golden brown between two fingers and popped it into his mouth. After a bit, he shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Tastes as it always has.”

“May I…?”

“Of course.”

Perhaps G’raha should have waited to be given a piece, but for whatever reason he plucked a bit straight from the wrappings on Florian’s lap. Before he even opened his mouth, he smelled bright cinnamon. It warmed the sweet and sour fruit taste on his tongue - a brilliant combination of Coerthan cool and subtle sun. “My, it’s - quite good!” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You made this?”

“Aye, though it looked a bit different when I did.”

“Well, the taste is the superior point, is it not?” His tail flicked with delight, and perhaps a little embarrassment. He’d have felt less self-conscious if Elezen had so unsubtle a tell. “Consider me impressed, Warrior.”

“You may call me Florian.”

“Oh! Of course.” He furrowed his brow and leaned back on his hands, troubled by the idea that the Warrior thought he'd been trying to distance himself.

“If it’s all right with you, G’raha Tia,” Florian said after a while, “I’d prefer you have a fresh sample before you pass final judgment on my skills as a culinarian. ‘Twas my intention to solicit your feedback, though I certainly could have chosen a better time and place.”

“_My_ feedback?”

Florian tilted his head back and smiled with narrow eyes. “Of course. You come across as a man of taste.”

He flushed. “What brings you to that conclusion?”

“Of all those affiliated with the Scions, you’re the only man I’ve come across who bears that symbol on his skin and not his clothes.” He gestured to the deep marks on his left shoulder.

“That’s got nothing to do with taste.”

“Has it?” Tricky eyes glinted back to G’raha. Now the Miqo’te was _truly_ on edge. What was he missing here? Had the Warrior gone half mad? Bright laughs fell from the Warrior's mouth after moments of ridiculous silence.

“G’raha Tia, Florian,” Cid’s voice called from behind. “Are you all right over there? I’ve a mind to come back another day. The two of you deserve rest before we start working out the trouble we’re in now.”

“Aye, Cid,” Florian said, holding up his arm but keeping his eyes forward. “Just a moment to catch my breath. I won’t be long.”

“And you?”

G’raha looked over his shoulder and half-smiled as best he could. “I’m quite fine. Thank you, Cid.”

The Garlean made for the stairs, perhaps having grown melancholy at the absence of his bitter companion. The thought kept G’raha for a moment before Florian spoke again.

“You know - this place is quite beautiful. Next time I’ve a moment to bake, perhaps you’d join me here?”

G'raha looked to his side and fiddled with his braid. “Well - maybe. If the timing lines up and...of course, should my studies lull, and indeed your own work…”

“Feel no obligation. But I admit I find your presence a bit comforting.”

G’raha decided to…let that one disappear on its own. Precisely what was going on?

Florian picked at his ruined pie for a bit longer. G’raha wordlessly savored every bit he was offered until the Elezen crumpled up the wrapping and stood with a hand outstretched. “Shall we, G’raha Tia?” he asked.

G’raha regarded him and his swooping, sweat-touched bangs, his winner’s smile. And then he took his hand and stood. “Please. G’raha is far less formal.”

“I suppose it’s only fair.”

G’raha slipped his hand from the other man’s and finally let a pang of fear slip in. How he’d been hurt before under happy circumstances, loving circumstances...how affectionate memories made bad ones all the more sour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hungry...


	6. In Which the Crystal Exarch Lies Poorly

A bell after sunset, the Exarch skipped down the stairs of the Dossal Gate and pulled up his hood to shield himself from a spot of rain. Though he’d worn it for decades, it felt almost like wearing a costume after the winds of Mt. Gulg had forced out the truth. The fabric weighed on his ears heavier than he remembered...but he didn’t want to wind up wet, either.

He hit a puddle on his way to Spagyrics, the water cold at his feet. Making a note to watch the ground more carefully, he nearly bumped into the figure standing just under the balcony, hidden by his cowl. They’d have collided if the Elf - or rather Elezen, G’raha realized - had not been watching deliberately. Florian uncrossed his arms and leaned closer to a pillar to get out of the way.

“P-p-pardon me,” G’raha said, walking backwards into the dry shadow.

“Exarch,” Florian said with high brows. Had he been watching the Tower? There was nothing else of note in his vision. “I was just - are you all right?”

G’raha wished he’d been paying more to his surroundings. “Yes, my friend. I wasn’t expected to see you here.”

“Your hood.” In one hand, he held a small knotted sack, one G’raha knew to have come from Spagyrics.

“Ah, yes.” The hood came down. G’raha’s ears perked up. “The rain, you see.”

“And you’ve got a tremble.” Florian shifted his weight forward and eyed the Exarch’s hands, raised as they were from his sides.

G’raha brought them together at his navel. “Do I? Well, I suppose...I _have_ come here for a reason, though I’d not have you worry on my behalf.”

He crossed his arms again, this time like a scholar suspicious of his pupil. “So it’s true, then.”

“True?”

He gestured with a thumb back to Spagyrics. “Fae-Hann has just told me you’ve a habit of working yourself to exhaustion.”

“Well, I hate to start and rest before I’ve…”

Florian’s eyebrows turned up at the ends.

“...finished.” _Damn_. What precisely had they told him? Exhaustion was part of the reason he'd come that evening, but not quite a bullseye. He didn't want to be awake and alert, he wanted to be - 

Florian cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “You see, a man called Bethden said he suspects I suffer from the same affliction, what with all the adventuring. And since I’d been hoping to see you, anyway, I thought I would bring a vial of the remedy...and perhaps prepare something sweeter to help you cope with the taste. If you’d have it, of course.”

The Exarch rubbed his hands together. He felt even less right than he had before. _Naturally_ the one time he sought aid of his own will and not Lyna’s insistence, the Warrior would be guarding the gate.

If only putting the hood back up could have given him the strength to smile and accept the offer. These were no longer days wherein his conversational strength came from anonymity, from boldness at having hidden his face and his past. Now he had to struggle with the fact that this man knew things about him, remembered things about him. Remembered, perhaps, the feelings he had once harbored...and now G’raha feared the Warrior was keen on learning whether those feelings persisted.

For what purpose, he preferred not to speculate.

“My friend, I am - I am truly sorry.” G’raha bowed his head once. “I’ve come for...another purpose. You see?” As though a convenient excuse would make itself evident that very moment.

Florian’s shoulders drooped. G’raha’s heartbeat rose.

“I’ve just come to...pick up something for another ailment, actually.”

“What’s wrong? I want to help.”

“Well, I…” The Exarch tensed his hands and let them fall once more to his sides. There was nothing to be done but close whatever door he may have left open. “Forgive me. I’d rather not trouble you with details. Suffice it to say, it is true I’ve been feeling under the weather.” True enough.

Florian blinked and stepped closer, leaning down and lowering his voice. “G’raha, I...is it something I’ve done?” He sounded rushed, a bit desperate. “I can’t help but feel as though I’ve wronged you, somehow.”

_Wronged me?_ This wasn’t going right at all.

“I only want to say - if you think I have nothing to say to you after everything, then…” Florian’s features softened. “I’m sorry. I’m certain you must have plenty else to do...and it’s selfish of me to presume the years haven’t changed you. Gods, I've probably changed plenty myself.”

G’raha’s mouth hung open. The wind blew a mist against his face, and he turned toward Spagyrics to keep it out of his eyes. Drops of water had caught on his eyelashes, and wiping them away felt almost like crying.

“I’ll...be off, then, Exarch.”

When G’raha turned, the Elezen smiled back at him, already well into the rain with nary a care for being wet, as though Hydaelyn's blessing protected him from dark weather as well as dark forces.

Despite being mostly dry, G’raha felt like he was melting. He mumbled to those attending Spagyrics what he needed. _Can’t sleep, thoughts racing, need to stay calm, on top of things, etc…_ They speculated as to the cause of his insomnia, but all he needed was the brew. He already knew what kept his eyes open and his heart rate fast. For all the love he held, there was no proper place to put it. Even centuries ago, it had fallen in the wrong places. That day - threatening to fall the same way again.


	7. In Which G’raha Tia Sleeps Alone...Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quiiiiiite ready for that rating boost...probably...but soon.

G’raha Tia liked the Warrior. He liked him very much.

He liked his cooking, the little gifts he’d bring upon his return to camp. He liked that he brought enough for everyone, but always secreted something away for G’raha. He fulfilled his crowned pie promise, but also offered mini snowflake cakes, a multitude of exotic scones, pretty ribbon tarts, and other dishes. G’raha had never had a sweet tooth, but Florian helped him develop one soon enough.

He liked how camp brightened upon Florian’s arrival. Work seemed worth finishing. Work seemed _possible to finish_. And he liked how Florian kept his distance until he was certain G’raha had finished the last chapter, written the last note, performed the last chore...so as not to distract him.

He liked the dainty flowers Florian brought into battle and wore in his hair. He liked how they contrasted against the deep black armor of his class, petal to spike, lavender to lance. If G’raha chanced to see him fighting, he loved to watch his concentration turn to shy amusement when his opponents’ advances shook the flowers free. Sad as it was to see them trampled or discarded, Florian wore the face of a man who knew collecting more was no difficult task. And that convinced G’raha, somehow, that no task would prove difficult for the person who’d caught his eye.

And often, should they finish their respective tasks early enough, they would make the climb to the summit of Syrcus Tower and lean against Xande’s throne, or let their feet dangle in the water. As eager as G’raha was to flap his lips around other people, Florian led most of their conversations when they were alone. Not at first - but once G’raha admitted to himself how much he respected this man, how much he hoped to maintain his favor, he employed an economy of words for the first time in a long time.

Except there was _that_ time…

“Do you think it’s getting too cold out for this?” Florian lay next to G’raha on the platform before Xande’s throne. Both faced only the stars.

“Maybe a bit.” His palms were sweaty. On the off chance the Warrior had a mind to reach out and hold his hand, G’raha made sure to clasp them over his chest and draw his elbows in.

“I’m never certain what to expect of anyone’s perception of the weather.”

“Hailing from so cold a home, I’m unsurprised.”

Florian chuckled. “I hesitate to call it home, but...a fair point.”

G’raha twitched his ears. That high up, the only sounds he heard were wind, water, and the Warrior breathing at his side. Or talking. Or shuffling about, as he was in those moments.

“G’raha, can I ask you something?” He’d sat up and leaned on his elbow.

G’raha shot off the ground and mirrored his position with a bit less grace, and a far less confident expression. “No,” he said.

“No?”

“I mean - I mean I need to tell _you_ something. Before you do, in any case.” He peered at the ground and ran his free fingers through his bangs over and over again. “Something I ought disclose...for your sake…” _Better he learn the truth now than hurt me later._

“Disclose?” Florian narrowed his eyes and turned his head to the side. After running the word through his head a few times, he looked back like someone had slapped his head around. “You mean to tell me - is there someone else?”

“What?!”

“One who has been courting you?”

“_Courting me?_” G’raha blinked, twisted his lips, furled his brows until he had no choice but to sit up completely and bury his face in his hands. Ready to cry or laugh or freeze, otherwise. “Courting...me?”

“...yes?”

G’raha choked - and then the laugh won. He reeled back and laughed to the stars, slapping his leg in absolute subservience to the ridiculousness of the concept. Eventually he lost his balance and rolled back onto the cool crystal. He kept laughing until he could feel Florian leaning over to inspect.

“What is so funny?” the Warrior asked.

“N-nothing!” he said with only one eye open. “Far be it from me to judge _your_ actions - your taste.”

“My taste in men?” He squinted and leaned farther over, balancing himself with a hand at either of G’raha’s sides. The Elezen’s bangs hung straight down, revealing icy eyes and a pair of scars - the marks of two stories G’raha had yet to hear.

All laughter faded away. “Your taste,” G’raha said, eyes wide and voice quiet now. _All_ quiet, except those same elements that perpetually filled the Tower with sound. “In general, my friend.”

He set one eyebrow low, daring. “And what of _your_ taste?”

G’raha swallowed hard. “In - in men?”

“No.” Harder and more authoritative than the expression winding its way onto his face. The lines softened, his cheeks grew red, and he glanced to the side before continuing. Cold fingers danced at G’raha’s cheek. There was no questioning this man’s intentions. “If I may…”

“Florian…” _I haven’t told him_, G’raha thought. _He’s going to kiss me, and I need to tell him_. But he said nothing, even as the Warrior’s eyelids hung lower, and he edged to close the distance between his lips…

...and G’raha’s forehead.

They held the pose. They kept holding it until Florian inhaled once and backed away, assuming a cross-legged position, his back turned and hunched. By the time G’raha righted himself, his companion was laughing and rubbing his temple.

“...Florian?”

“As it happens - I am a coward.” He turned over his shoulder and beamed. “I suppose it’s those Ishgardian sensibilities yet alive in me somewhere.”

G’raha straightened his ears, let his tail flick once on the platform’s glassy surface. Perhaps he could stand to coax a bit of the sassy Bard he wore for others from dormancy. “My dear friend - are you trying to tell me you had planned to do something more?”

“I wouldn’t say I had _planned_ to go further but…” He clenched a fist with comedic severity. “When you look at me so, you cannot imagine what I see!”

“I pray it’s a...flattering vision?” G’raha fiddled with his fingers, feeling hot. Had his companion not said something of a chill earlier?

Florian leaned back on his arms and turned so G’raha could just see his low-lidded eyes. “Someday I hope to have courage enough to tell you more about it. I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night. To think you weren’t aware of my intentions...” The starscape caught his attention again, or perhaps he felt gazing up was the only way he could keep the Miqo’te from scrutinizing the details of his expression, searching for the truth.

G’raha scooted closer and assumed the same cross-legged position, swishing his tail. “Then perhaps...it is my turn.”

“Hm?”

“To embarrass myself.” He caught his fingers at the high clasp of his vest and huffed once, twice. “There is aught you should know of me. Something that has offended others or...led them unintentionally to hurt me. And though my propensity for chatter is the stuff of legends around camp, I have found there is no better way to communicate this truth than - than simply showing you.”

Florian’s gaze was dark.

G’raha nodded. “Do you remember when our friends disappeared into the World of Darkness? How we sat here and you told me that you found my presence comforting?”

“Aye, and we shared that crumbled pie.”

“That’s right. I mean to say - the same is true for me when it comes to you. The moment you enter camp I feel as though a fog has lifted. Do you see? As though my troubles shrink upon your arrival.”

Florian tilted his head, half-nodding.

“And thus - should the truth I aim to unveil change either your feelings or mine - “

The Elezen smiled and lowered his head.

G’raha hesitated before continuing. “Know that I, for one, shall continue to work with you - as a professional and a scholar. And a Bard, should my services be of use to - “

“G’raha…”

“ - you and yours. And the Sons, of course. And I trust that what I disclose would not be - “

“The stuff of legends.”

“...pardon?”

“Your propensity for chatter is the stuff of legends, as you said.” Florian smiled so wide his eyes closed. “Show me, my friend. I can think of few secrets that would deter me from the path that leads to you.”

_Nor I, you_, he admitted internally. _But at least one obstacle remains._ “Very well.”

G’raha undid the top of his vest, repeating clumsy mantras of self-assurance in his head before parting the fabric and letting his hands fall to his sides. He closed his eyes, knowing it would take Florian a few moments to understand, that he would at first see what he had expected to see - a broad chest, sculpted by hours of tireless work. Then he would see the fading pink scars that cupped his pectoral muscles. And _then_ he would realize why a scholar, a Student of Baldesion, would spend so much time honing his muscles despite his place in the field. _This is a man who wants to look like a man_, he might think. Or worse - _this is a _woman_ who wants to look like a man._

G’raha bit his lip. This time he wasn’t sure if he could bear it. Hearing that thought, as he had heard it before, but from the Warrior’s lips might push him into the water, or from the top of the Tower altogether.

A hand touched his cheek and woke him.

“G’raha.” Florian had scooted closer. He wore a look not unlike the one he pointed at his enemies, serious and grave, but shaded pink this time. “You are far braver than I.”

“Me?”

“Look at me, afraid to place a kiss upon a man’s lips...and here he is undressing before my very eyes!”

G’raha’s tail straightened. “No! That was not my meaning! You see, I - “

“G’raha.” A full enough sound to stop the wind from blowing. “I _know_ what you meant. And I will say two things on the matter.”

G’raha brought his hands to his sternum and clamped them together.

“One: I am attracted to _men_, and that includes you.”

“Ah...ahah...I see.”

“And two.” He cupped G’raha’s hands with his own long fingers. “Whoever made you feel like less of one has it coming, if I have my way.”

G’raha flushed and looked just about every direction beside forward. When he finally had the courage to look at Florian’s eyes, he read the words in a different light; the Elezen’s own cheeks were red, with anger or affection, and his lips hung halfway open, shaking just a tad more than the hands that held his companion’s.

G’raha exhaled cool air and decided he was tired of being shy.

“Florian, my friend,” he said, trying to sound unflustered. “How dare you?”

“Dare I what?”

“Say something so entirely dramatic! Like something from a storybook, truly.”

Florian’s head went back a bit and his grip loosened before he caught the Miqo’te’s tone. “But - as I recall you are ever fond of stories.”

“That’s right. _Good_ stories. How am I supposed to take you seriously with so much sentimentality caught in your sentiment?”

Florian laughed and rubbed his neck. “Sentimentality in my…? Well, G’raha, tell me a good story then, if you say I have so much to learn.”

He forced a pout and wagged a scolding finger. “By this point you ought to call me _Raha_.”

“Raha?”

Oh, that sound tasted good indeed. “Y-yes. And it’s a shame we haven’t…”

Chin low, eyes high and wide. “Kissed, yes?”

“Mmperhaps…”

They scooted closer to one another. Seated, Florian was still far taller than G’raha so he had to lean down to meet him at eye level.

That was something G’raha couldn’t quite tolerate, so he raised himself on his knees and stared intently with pursed lips.

“Well?” Florian said.

“Indeed…”

The water rushed. The wind rolled.

G’raha closed his eyes and found the other’s lips easily, thin and soft and warm and _wanting_. They opened at the insistence of his tongue and G’raha crooned upwards to better assert himself. Soon, Florian’s hands cupped his head. When fingers found his ears, G’raha leaned into the sensation, but his partner couldn’t fully stifle a laugh. The humor infected G’raha, too, and they tried their best to stay together laughing into one another’s mouths.

“N-no fair,” G’raha said, curling his fingers around Florian’s pointed ears.

“Hey there…”

G’raha used the new leverage to link himself better. What a wonder. What a miracle. What an oddity. What splendor. What _indulgence_. And just as he had halfway realized his vest still hung open, a voice called from the top of the stairs.

“Sir - eh - sirs? Master Loudin?”

G’raha tried to turn, but Florian caught his chin and looked for himself. “Yes. Is aught amiss?”

“Some news has arrived for you from...Coerthas it appears. Camp Dragonhead?”

He knit his brow. “Coerthas?” G’raha stared in wonder at a face that could wield gravity and levity in equal measure.

“Aye, and I’m told it’s urgent.”

He eyes twitched. “Very well. Expect me soon.”

Footsteps faded down the stairs. Florian relaxed and leaned back looking defeated. “Well, my friend. It appears duty calls.”

“So it would seem.” G’raha regarded his own chest before clasping his vest over again.

“Rest assured, I will return at my soonest leisure.” He cocked his head and offered a look that could have passed for sultry. A look that convinced G’raha to let his eyes dance with curiosity between his companion’s thighs, and _indeed_ there was something…

Florian must have noticed, because when G’raha looked back at his face that smile had become quite the smirk. “And you?” he said.

G’raha fixed his hair. “Well, I suppose I’ll head off to camp. Sleep alone...for now.”

"For now." Florian stood and stretched his arms wide before extending a hand to G'raha and helping him right himself. The smaller man craned his neck upwards and let skylight paint his mismatched eyes. Shadows couldn't stop Florian from looking like a hero. They stood far too long. G'raha's tail lashed in anticipation of a proper goodbye, until finally Florian set his hands upon his shoulders and leaned down to plant one last kiss upon his forehead.

"Thank you," he said. "For trusting me."

"And thank you for helping me off the ground." G'raha smiled to the side. "Oh, and for that whole world-saving bit you seem to have pulled off a time or two..."

"A trivial matter, I assure you."

"Oh?"

"I'll have to tell you about it sometime."

That night - G'raha dreamt of more colors he had ever seen in the waking world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, wouldn't it be nice if you could out yourself as trans and your new loving elf boyfriend responded thusly? Wouldn't that be swell? Wouldn't that j u s t b e d a n d y


	8. In Which the Crystal Exarch Receives a Gift and Rejects Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends :)
> 
> These chapters were never meant to be long, which means I ought to have finished this long ago. But as the sages say, it be like that.

_Something to brighten his mood, something to brighten his day…_

The Warrior of Light and Darkness flitted about Musica Universalis like summer-breeze, always with the same poignant expression. His eyes searched each vendor, each booth, each board mechanically, like a dream had caught him.

_None of my business...but should I find a suitable something…_

Fingers tipped over trinkets and tidbits. Questioning clerks went unanswered and became silent. Eyes watched.

_ If I should find something proper...I might as well…_

When Florian’s eyes crossed from having stared at a gaudy wind chime for too long, he knew he’d find nothing in the Crystarium that Raha - that the Exarch hadn’t seen before. _Not_ that he was looking…

For whatever reason, though, Florian wondered how his comrades at the Botanist Guild had fared in his absence.  
_____________

Xande’s throne sat ever grand at the summit of Syrcus Tower, ever large for the Tower’s current keeper. The Exarch found himself there anyway, feet dangling over the arm rest’s side, back flat against the base. The blue sky still loomed over him. He chewed his lip and pondered how many years it had taken for him to acclimate to the bloom of unnatural light. How many would it take to readjust?

Each night he dared rest, the medicine helped him sleep peacefully for a few bells and in fits for a few more. Never at the proper hours. Aside from the view, he came to the throne to feel the wind upon his sweat-soaked skin. He preferred nature’s cool to that of the Tower when waking from dreams that dehumanized him so, for the memories he saw in slumber were not often his own, but those of the Tower. And they were not pleasant.

Nay, he much preferred to daydream, if he could. Of Krile Baldesion’s quiet encouragement and validation, of pranks that went well, or poorly, of apologies he made and responsible promises he pretended to forget. He often forced himself to think on _those_ days, and not those last few he spent at Saint Coinach’s Find. _That’s_ always where his mind drifted, when left to its own devices, and if he let it drift he always ended up smelling lavender and crowned pies and Ishgardian goodies and by the _Gods_ it was all too much, it was far too much for him to remember, though over the years he had practically ground the memories into his teeth.

He winced and pressed his palms into his eyes. What truly compelled him to keep Florian at a distance? Was it his Exarch persona? Was it the years? Was it the fact that his body belonged halfway to the Tower? Or was it...something else?

G’raha’s ears twitched at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, pitched just over the humming waters. Once it occurred to him that those steps belonged to a person, he righted himself and smoothed his robes over his legs, folded with his feet together.

Florian waved like a timid princess as he approached the platform. Wind shook the short sleeves of his forest-tinted shirt, complemented by a lighter vest and the potted plant he held against his hips in one arm. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said. “Lyna told me I might find you here, though...I fully understand, should you send me away.” He tapped his chin with his free hand and looked left, right. “This place seems so intimate to me now. I can’t imagine you hosting here often.”

The Exarch’s tail relaxed, all but the tip which twitched beneath his robes. He felt disarmed. “I don’t,” he said. Then, realizing how far he sat from the Warrior, he repeated himself louder. “I don’t. Have you been searching for me?”

Florian kept his eyes on G’raha as he approached the edge of the platform. Height and water separated them, along with something less physical. “Not overlong,” he said, unblinking.

This conversation was making him ache already. Their _last_ conversation had been making him ache. Perhaps the pain was his to rectify. G’raha fiddled with his hands before blurting something out. “I’ve been meaning to make amends with--”

“I wanted to bring this parting gift.” Florian spoke louder and stepped forward with the momentum of his words.

G’raha’s posture wilted.

The Warrior twisted his lips and looked to the side. “Call me foolish, but...I rather like having mementos by which to remember those I’ve cared for.”

“Far be it from _any_ soul of the First to forget your contributions, my friend. Let alone mine.” His red eyes were wide. A panic response rang somewhere deep inside, but he didn’t want to let it show.

“That aside...I’ve brought you this nonetheless. From Gridania.”

“You’ve returned to the Source, then?” He cocked his head. “Yet you call this a parting gift.”

Florian nodded and cleared his throat. “It is. Unless you...and the people of the First have immediate need of me, I’ve planned to return on a more permanent basis.” He pursed his lips. After letting the water ring in his ears, he perked up again. “Though rest assured; your accommodations have been most satisfactory. This is not an issue of hospitality, G’raha. Exarch.”

The title made G’raha’s ears flicker back. No, he thought, he _didn’t_ like the way it sounded on Florian’s lips. But there was nothing to be done.

“Well, I should relay my designs for this specimen,” Florian said, stepping forward and setting the plant on the edge of the platform. “This is a form of ivy notoriously hard to kill.” He slipped off his shoes and started rolling up his trousers. “Fast growing as well. I’ve not encountered it on the First, but I thought perhaps this throne--your throne-- could do with some exotic greenery.” He grabbed the plant and stood up straight.

G’raha frowned. “Florian.”

The Warrior stepped into the pool and started for the throne. “Worry not for its care. Up here it’ll have plenty of sunlight.” He continued wading until he had to crane his neck to look the Exarch in the eye. Like an automaton, he stretched his arms in offering. “I wager watering it as often as once a week should suffice.”

G’raha’s eyes wandered down to the plant, this ivy. Each leaf was a shiny, deep green, though the veins looked almost white. It was simple. Pleasant. And yes, it _would_ have looked nice coating a portion of the throne. But how could this man offer it up with a chaotic smile and electric eyes?

An expression like that. It wasn’t happiness. It was hurt.

Letting his lids flutter shut, the Exarch set his hands on the plant but made no move to take it. A whisper fell from his lips, just above the water. “Though I have hurt you greatly, I would never ask you to become a stranger.”

Florian pushed at the plant until G’raha held it soundly. The smile was gone. He turned away. “Raha, forgive me. I simply…” He sputtered out and shook his head. “Perhaps you are right. I _should_ be angry with you. I should struggle to forgive you for what I’ve been made to do, where I’ve been taken. Yet…” When he looked back up, his face matched the pain of his words. “You are _here_. You are the one thing I’ve lost that ever came back to me. And I have lost _much_.”

G’raha set the plant to his side and wrapped his left hand over his mouth.

Florian continued. “You say such things as if--as if I’m not shaking at the very thought of being with you. My old friend. My _lost_ friend. Returned. You are here when so much isn’t and so many aren’t.”

G’raha had come to the throne to daydream. But dreams were meant to stay just that. All this was too much, even for a mind that had tempered itself against closeness for over a century. He set his hands, barely steady, at the edge of the throne and eased himself down into the pool. The splash not entirely suppressed, water pulled at his robes, weighed him down. But still Florian heeded the push of G’raha’s hand on his chest until he had backed into the platform and sat. Full of light. Both of them, G’raha thought. But this light, too, was worth purging. Holding in. Bearing with gritted teeth.

“Raha,” Florian said, leaning back onto his palms.

The Exarch wrapped his arms around Florian’s neck, brought his fingers through his hair, even dared to breathe in the cool, earthy scent he wished had grown more familiar--and planted a kiss on his forehead. Tears timed the contact. As soon as they had dripped to Raha’s cheeks, he pulled himself away. “I am not strong enough.”

Florian’s eyes fluttered closed. “You are strong enough. You’ve always been strong enough. More than.”

“I’m not strong enough to tell you how I feel. Nor am I strong enough to deny you outright.” He kissed his forehead once more before climbing onto the platform and rushing for his sandals, set to the side.

“Raha, please.”

“I need to be alone.” He slipped through door and became just that.

So did Florian.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Hit me up on Twitter, Tumblr, whatev @crystalsexarch


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